People hate it when you insist that there's a lack of diversity in American cinema. That makes me wonder if they simply don't watch as many movies as I do. They probably don’t.

I love movies. When I was a kid, I got a VHS copy of Stand By Me for my birthday. I remember thinking that it was the best gift I’d ever received. I was about ten years old at the time and completely obsessed. It was a thoughtful gift, and when I realized what I’d been given, my heart sang. I was beyond thrilled that I could now watch it whenever I wanted. I watched it incessantly. In fact, I still have that VHS cassette and I don’t hang onto much. It was the first movie I’d ever owned and that means something to me because, like I said, I love movies and I watch lots of them.

I want nothing more than for the movies to always be the good guy, the right thing and the correct answer. However, they can’t be my safe place today because today they’re the problem.

A few days ago, when the list of the 2016 Academy Award nominees was released, it immediately popped into my Facebook newsfeed. Instantly, I clicked on the first Oscar-related post I saw, not because I desperately wanted to know if any brown people had been nominated, but because I wanted to see if Leonardo DiCaprio had been deemed worthy of a nomination this year. I’d recently seen The Revenant, enjoyed his performance and was now fully invested in his quest for one of those coveted, golden statuettes. If you ask me, DiCaprio deserved one for his performance in Django Unchained, but he didn’t even get nominated that year.

Upon my initial review of this year’s list of nominees, nothing seemed out of place. Then I realized that everyone nominated in the acting categories was white. Again. “Is this really representative of the talent that’s out there?” I thought as I rolled my eyes hard and fast. A fraction of a second later, I read that Alejandro Gonzales Iñárritu had been nominated for best Director for The Revenant. “Welp, at least we have a Mexican in the Best Director category, and a legit one at that. Ajua, motherfuckers,” I thought as I smiled and looked out the window, proud that a brown person like myself could indeed rise to the top. Unfortunately, the moment didn’t last.

Curious to see what other folks thought of the clear lack of diversity in this year’s Oscar nominations, I headed straight to the comments section. It was worse than I expected in there. The very first comment I saw was actually a rant about how giving Oscars to minorities, just because they’re people of color in a movie, would devalue the entire process. “Is this asshole for real?” I thought as I scrolled down past more and more comments echoing his outrage.

I read so many nasty comments that I felt compelled to speak up because I’m a minority, I love movies and I don’t see enough of myself reflected back at me when I watch them. I’m part of the American experience, but you might never know that if you’re only going by what you see in American films and that feels like an insult, especially to someone who finds solace in movies. I couldn’t leave the comments section without saying something and so I posted a comment of my own. I said that no one was asking for an Oscar simply because they’re a person of color in the movies, and to assume that there just weren’t any Oscar-worthy performances from minorities this year is naive.

My comment was not an invitation for discussion. It was simply my opinion. I never intended to engage these people in conversation. What I wanted was to let them know that their point of view wasn’t the only point of view. In response, folks called me, and others with similar views to mine, whining babies. They insisted that we were just playing “the race card.” This I expected. I get it a lot actually and it makes zero impact because if you’re going to debate me, you’re going to need more than petty insults to get the job done. Others went beyond basic insults and slathered their responses in condescension. They told me that I hadn’t properly thought through my position. They assured me that if I just took the time to really think about what I was saying, I’d see that I was mistaken. Infuriating right? Wrong. I get this a lot too. I’m a woman and a proud feminist, so I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been virtually patted on the head and told run along, but I never do.

One man in particular (an Asian guy) responded directly to me, noting that there weren’t any Asians nominated this year either. He said he would never complain about his lack of representation at the Oscars. Nope. Not him, he was going to tough it out or something. He sounded so proud of himself for this, but his statement only confused me. “Maybe it’s a cultural thing,” I thought as I continued reading. He went on to say that, hey, at least Alejandro Gonzales Iñárritu was nominated and he’s Mexican. “A BLOODLY MEXICAN [emphasis his] and we never judged him for it.” I suppressed my initial instinct to attack this guy and instead reminded him calmly (i.e. sans caps lock) that Iñárritu hadn’t been nominated for his work as a minority, but a director. I also took this opportunity to inform this jerk that Mexicans like Iñárritu and myself are technically Caucasian. He stopped talking at me after that.

The Angry Comment Crew (including the Asian guy) simply insisted that if people like me want to see more minorities in movies, then we should get out there and make those movies. And, if we weren’t willing to make those movies, then we should shut the hell up. These people truly believe that if us minorities actually took the time to study real hard, practice diligently and apply ourselves, we might one day make just as many Oscar worthy movies as white folks.

Here’s the problem with that logic:

How exactly are we supposed to make these movies if we can’t even make it into the movie-making club that is Hollywood? Furthermore, the white male narrative has dominated Hollywood since the invention of the motion picture, but times have changed. Audiences have matured and developed a beautiful complexity that can no longer be denied. The lack of diversity in the acting nominations for this year’s Academy Awards is not the problem; it is merely a symptom. If you still don't belive me, watch the first two videos below. Enjoy.

If you’ve ever read anything I’ve posted, you already know I have no problem calling out racism when I see it. Hell, I was told to go back to my “ancestral country” just last month, after commenting on the underrepresentation of minorities in American cinema. It was uncalled for, but it happens.
It happens a lot, actually. I’ve been told to learn English and go back to my country time and again, and it’s always infuriating on countless levels. First, I studied languages in college. I speak four. English was my first, and I work pretty hard to improve upon my use of this particular language, since it’s the one I write in most often. Second, I’m American. This is my country, even if my parents were both born in Mexican towns no one has ever heard of or had a margarita in. Here’s the kicker, my parents and I are American as apple pie. Interestingly enough, that last part usually pisses people off.

When some folks hear me say I also consider myself Mexican, their indignation becomes instantly apparent. I can almost see the rage spark deep within their pupils once my words register. “Either you’re American or you’re Mexican; you can’t have it both ways,” they inform me. What they don’t know is that I can have it both ways because I am, in fact, both.

Sometimes when people look at me, they see an outsider, a toilet scrubber, a servant, cheap labor, the enemy. Those people don’t see an American. Oftentimes, I haven’t even gotten a word out before those same people start making some serious judgment calls about things like my character or ability to understand multisyllabic words. I live proudly with that reality. I say “proudly” because I take great pride in my Mexican heritage and dealing with those kinds of assumptions is a part of being a Mexican-American. It's annoying, insulting and hurtful, but my heritage means a lot to me. In fact, I find it odd to refer to my aunts, uncles, cousins and friends living in Mexico as part of some far-away heritage. They are part of my now--my reality. My family didn’t get on some Mayflower hundreds of years ago in search of the promise land because we didn't need to. We were already here. We're not outsiders and we've been "Americans" far longer than you.

Racism is awful stuff. In case you hadn’t noticed, it just made me fly into full Internet Rant Mode while attempting to compile the Monday news links for you. So, instead giving you your first News Links post of 2016, I give you just one news link, an infographic and this rant. I’m sorry.

Hopefully, we can at least agree that racism is bullshit, because that’s the easy part. Deciding what actually constitutes racism appears to be much more involved. To be clear, creating a dating site designed for white folks to meet and hook up with other white folks, is not racist.

JDate, the dating website for Jewish singles isn’t racist and never was, right? Latinos have Amigos.com, Indians have DesiCrush.com and Black people have BlackCupid.com yet none of those are considered racist. If it’s not racist for us, then it’s not racist for them. WhitePeopleMeet.com may sound like the place to go if you need directions to the Aryan Nation, but in reality it’s just another map to pound town.

Despite the fact that we still have one more holiday to go before “the holidays” officially come to a close. I think it’s safe to say that Christmas is most certainly over. People might still have their trees and twinkle lights up (Guilty!), but the most wonderful time of the year has ended. If you require confirmation of that sad reality, look no further.

Today, a grand jury decided not to bring charges against the cop who gunned down a twelve year old kid. For the record, Tamir Rice didn’t get his grand jury. What he got was a speedy trial and an execution by a skiddish cop with an itchy trigger finger. Remember that, because whatever argument you just formulated in your head, about the myriad ways I’m wrong, doesn’t matter. That kid’s dead, and the guy who killed him won’t even have to go on trial to prove what he did was a mistake.

A grand jury stopping just short of accountability isn’t an oversight, it’s obscene. Timothy J. McGinty, Cuyahoga County prosecutor, called the events that lead to Tamir’s death “a perfect storm of human error.” To Mr. McGinty I say, no sir. Those events were a tragedy, and this most recent development is a blatant example of police impunity and disregard for human life.

The person who called the cops on Tamir Rice specifically mentioned that he appeared to be a juvenile and indicated that they thought the gun was probably fake. Even though the 911 operator who took that call neglected to pass this information on to the cops, it should be noted. If that caller could see that Tamir Rice was just a kid, likely waving around a toy gun, then the police--who are trained at spotting and handling crimes--should have been able to discern that as well.

What it comes down to is this: If you scare easily and you’ve got an itchy trigger finger, you should not be a police officer. You are not doing your job well when you kill innocent children. Finally, any system (i.e. grand jury) which lets cops like these off the hook, without so much as an indictment, is just as culpable as the cops themselves.

How come every time us minority folk talk about racial disparities, someone has to tell us to go back to our native lands? What is that about? Does the minutia of inequality freak these people out? Or, is it that they never expected us brown people to notice that the game (i.e. the game of life in the U.S. in 2015) is not set up in our favor. Well guess what, guys. We noticed.

Today--just like yesterday, yesteryear and the days of old--the game is set up in favor of the straight, white male. I know that sentence sounds all angry and disgruntled, but it’s not. It is simply the truth. If you’re a white male, you’ve got the odds stacked in your favor more often than not. It’s OK to accept that. Us minorities have, and we do what we can to cope. Sometimes, we even talk about racial disparities and lack of diversity in public. Don’t fret, though. We’re not attacking you; we’re simply expressing our frustrations and realities, but I digress.

It's a video of actor Cliff Curtis who is a New Zealander of native / indigenous (Maori) descent. If you’ve seen a movie or watched TV in the last ten years, you’ve probably seen his face. I know I have. I’ve seen him play Latinos a couple of times and he was good. It seems lots of people are pretty good at playing Latinos. There was Natalie Wood as Maria in West Side Story, Marlon Brando as Emiliano Zapata in Viva Zapata!, Al Pacino as Tony Montana in Scarface and Carlito Brigante in Carlito’s Way and finally, Cliff Curtis as Smiley in Training Day.

It seems there’s always room for Latinos in the storytelling, but not so much when it comes to casting. Wait. That’s not even really true, because there always seems to be a Latino floating around when Hollywood needs someone to play a gardener or maid.

When you’re a kid growing up addicted to movies, you look to them for escape. You want to see yourself reflected in this temporary nirvana. When you’re a Latino kid, that doesn’t happen often and wen it does, it’s nothing more than the personification of a multitude of negative stereotypes. For a budding cinephile, that’s extremely disheartening to experience, especially when you don’t feel all that different from anyone else depicted on the silver screen.

To be clear, this isn’t a dig at Curtis. He’s a talented actor. He clearly works hard to make all of his portrayals wholly believable. If you doubt that, just watch the video in the Slate post, and you’ll see. Ultimately, it’s not the actors that irritate me in this scenario. They’re just trying to get work, which I fully understand and support. What irks me is that Hollywood refuses to truly embrace diversity when it comes to movie making.

As an American who values her freedom and damn near cries every time she hears the big speech from Independence Day, I feel I’m within my rights to express myself, especially online. Freedom of speech is a big deal when you’re American. Anyway, yesterday I commented on that Slate post. I said it was great that Cliff Curtis was so versatile, but I condemned Hollywood for refusing to hire more ethnic actors.

I made my observation, content with simply getting the contempt off my chest. Unable to let my comment stand, some bald-eagle profile picture told me to go back to my “ancestral country.” To him I simply said the same. I told him to go back to the land of his people because ultimately, we all come form somewhere, and the cinephiles among us would like to see that "somewhere" depicted in modern-day American cinema. Everybody seems to have forgotten that the U.S. is this great melting pot, and all I’m saying is that maybe it wouldn’t have been so easy to forget if Hollywood had done better at reflecting that melting pot back at us. The worst part of all of this is that Hollywood already knows what Uncle Ben said about great power and great responsibility because they helped him say it.

Last Friday (November 27th) Robert Lewis Dear terrorized a Colorado Springs Planned Parenthood clinic. He killed one police officer and two civilians. He was taken into custody alive and unhurt. That last part still blows my mind considering that people like Sandra Bland, Tamir Rice and Eric Garner all ended up dead without so much as laying a hand on a cop.

I wasn’t sure what to say about the Planned Parenthood shooting because it’s become part of our American routine. Folks shoot up public places, we’re distraught for a day or maybe even a week and then we forget. It happens on a regular basis and much commentary is spewed and debated in the wake of these crimes. What's left to say that hasn’t been said before? I had nothing until I saw the clip below.

As Larry Wilmore so eloquently put it, Robert Lewis Dear isn’t the only one with blood on his hands. Wilmore is absolutely correct when he insinuates that intentionally misleading news outlets should share in the blood spatter. I couldn’t agree more and if you’re doubting me, watch this clip and formulate your argument.

Those of us that get our news from various sources and who like to verify what we’ve heard, knew from the start that Planned Parenthood was never dealing in black market baby parts. The educated among us understand that Planned Parenthood is an organization that provides women’s health care to the underserved. Planned Parenthood isn’t Abortion, Inc.

What Robert Lewis Dear did was attack our freedom. Dear terrorized many, killed three and left nine others injured in his wake. Dear is a domestic terrorist and should be treated as such. Anything less would be an insult to the American way, much like every word that comes out of Donald Trump’s mouth.

Before I go, I have some questions for Dear and for the other domestic terrorists that take lives and wreak havoc on innocent people:

Why do white dudes feel compelled to shoot up public places so often? What is wrong with y’all? I don’t know what’s going on with your kind, but it is officially time to ask for help. You guys have a problem. You can’t stop. Admit it. Look at the news; it’s almost always people that look just like you. Why do you hate freedom? Why must you terrorize your fellow Americans? It’s contrary to everything this great nation stands for and you should know that better than anyone because you benefit most from the American system.

If that last paragraph up there sounds polarizing and somewhat offensive that’s because it is. It’s pretty shitty to have to bear the burden of your entire ethnicity's bad reputation, isn’t it? Think about that the next time you expect all Muslims to repent for the “sins” of a few or when you treat a Latino like a servant because you’re assuming his accent makes him an “illegal.”

There’s nothing left to say. There are no comforting words to pass on because this will happen again. That’s not pessimism, that’s reality. I thought a classroom full of dead kindergarteners would make a difference, but it didn’t--the shootings just kept coming. I’ve got nothing for you now but this mirror I’m holding up, which I refuse to put down.

I have this one friend who is pretty great. We’re not as close as we once were, but she’s one of the good ones. She’s the kind of person who is always willing to help out. If you need a favor, she’ll answer the phone when you call. If you need advice, she’ll be there to talk it out. If you need someone to watch scary movies with, she’ll bring the popcorn. If you need someone to sit quietly alongside you while you sob uncontrollably, she’s got your back. See what I mean? She’s the kind of friend you hang on to because she’s got a huge heart.
She sounds unreal, almost fictional, but all that stuff’s true. She shines when times get tough because she knows what it means to give without expecting a damn thing in return. Holly’s done the right thing, the good thing and the noble thing more often than most anyone I know. No matter how much time passes or how far away I move, I’ll always count her among my friends because she is what friends are all about. Like I said, she’s one of the good ones and this time it’s her that could use a little help.

All I’m asking is that you read Holly’s story below and consider giving her a hand. I know you don’t know her, but life is kicking her in the teeth while she's down and I’m positive you know what that feels like. Any little bit you can spare will be going to help one of the most deserving folks you’ll ever hear about. And so, while you’re thinking about what you’re thankful for this year, think about giving a genuinely good person a reason to smile and be grateful again.

Holly’s Story

My name is Holly Groshon. I am 38 years young. Up until a few months ago life was great. I have a job I've worked at for almost 12 years (which gave me the opportunity to travel). My second job, pet sitting, filled my heart with my love of animals. I cared for my aging mother and also my Grandmother, and my 2 fur babies. I was the main bread winner and caretaker. All of this changed over the past 3 months

In mid-August I came down with what I thought was the flu. Within 1 week I was admitted to the hospital. During that time I lost all use of my lower body. It took a great team of doctors and many, many tests to finally discover I had a rare acute attack of Transverse Myelitis also known as TM. TM is categorized as a spinal cord injury and in severe cases like mine can cause paralysis. Once discovered, the doctors went to work finding the correct medications. I had to have a blood plasma wash to stop the damage from spreading. Despite all of the treatment, my legs did not return. I could wiggle my toes but did not feel them. After the doctors did all they could I was transferred to a sub-acute rehabilitation center in order to build my upper body strength and try to get me to stand.

I worked hard at the rehabilitation center and did make some progress, but became ill due to improper care of my catheter. I was rushed back to the hospital and spent 3 days in ICU. I was informed that my blood was septic from a urinary infection. I fought hard and I pulled through. The setback was devastating and once the infection was out of my system it left me still unable to move my lower body or feel any body functions in addition to a new pain. This new pain is horrible spasms just above the paralyzed area. The spasms come in waves and they are unbearable at times. Because TM is so rare and after checking everything in that area it is believed I will have this pain forever.

I continue to work hard as ever at an inpatient rehab facility located in the hospital. I work every day on increasing my upper body strength, learn spinal cord injury techniques, increase my stamina and balance. I hope to one day stand and maybe even walk but the doctors can’t say 100 % if I will be able to. I hope that maybe in 2 to 3 years’ time I can walk with a walker.

To sum it all up, I have been in the hospital now since Aug 24 2015, and today is Nov 23 2015. The therapists and doctors are shooting to get me home by Dec 2 2015, however I need specialized equipment in order to discharge safely. Most of the equipment is not covered by my insurance and I will have to pay 20 % of my hospital bill. We are not sure if the special medication I am on will be covered by insurance either. Here is a list of what I must have in order for me to manage at home with my Mother’s help

Sabina Lift machine ($4,000)

Special rotating tub transfer bench ($250.00)

A specialized wheelchair ($2000-3000)

Hospital bed with added bed rails

Other medical equipment

Structural modifications to my house

Special wheel chair transportation

Long term therapy.

I am sure I am leaving some things out, this is all so overwhelming and I have never reached out for help so this is not coming easy to me. I have always been the one to give to others. But I find myself in need of help.

If you can find it in your heart to help I promise I will work so hard and prove that I can still live my life despite this disease. I hope to one day use my experience to help others who suffer from similar illness. Please share my story check my page often I will update God Bless each of you in advance for anything that you do whether it be to donate or to share or to just pray for me and my mother and my Gran.

Dear ridiculous Christians,
Wait. That probably sounded worse than I intended. To be clear, not all of you are ridiculous. Those of you who think Starbucks is waging some sort of war on your favorite holiday because they omitted the snow flakes from their disposable cups are the ones I can’t take seriously.

I’m not going to point out how a great deal of the symbolism and traditions we adhere to in celebration of this, the most wonderful time of the year, were actually usurped from pagan traditions. I think you already know about that. You’re smarter than a bag of rocks and you probably also know that Jesus likely wasn’t even born on December 25th. If you’re a devout Christian, you surely know that the bible doesn’t even mention the month of his birth. Don’t worry; I won’t try to school you on the stuff you, as good Christians, already know. I’m writing this for another reason entirely.

There is no war on Christmas. Starbucks doesn’t hate Christmas. If they did, they might consider not selling their annual Christmas blend coffee. There is no war on Christmas because it’s entirely too lucrative a holiday to let it die. You are right about one thing, though; there is a war. The war is on Thanksgiving and Thanksgiving has lost.

I went shopping Saturday (November 7th) and was bombarded with red, green and white the moment I walked into the unholiest of places: my local mall. As I perused, I overheard folks talking about how far they’d gotten on their Christmas shopping lists. I saw families waiting in line to get pictures with Santa (not Jesus). I wandered around for over an hour trying to find some sort of Thanksgiving decoration that I could use as a centerpiece this year and found nothing but Halloween decorations on clearance and Christmas ornaments.

Christmas is alive and well, but Thanksgiving is sitting on a back shelf somewhere out of sight, bleeding to death and no one gives a shit. We went from costume parties and candy to Christmas carols and gift-wrapping in the blink of an eye. If you don’t believe me, look up from your phone right now and tell me if you see turkeys and cornucopias everywhere or Santa Clauses and reindeer.

You nitwits are protesting the death of the wrong holiday and what’s more, you’re doing it idiotically.

If you want Starbucks or any other organization to feel the loss of your respect, try not handing them fistfuls of your money. You want to protest the lack of snowflakes on their paper cups? Don’t tell the barista your name is Merry Christmas; instead, try not walking into Starbucks in the first place. Get your coffee somewhere else. Your instagrams will not save you and they will not save Christmas because Christmas does not need saving and it certainly doesn’t need you.

Happy Thanksgiving,
Jane

PS – If anyone knows where I can get a Thanksgiving centerpiece, please advise. I looked all day Saturday and still came up empty-handed.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far away, I wrote about how chivalry was dead. At the time, I declared us women responsible for that death. It was our fault. We were the ones that had stabbed it to death. We let the blood drain from its body and we watched as it went cold and stiff with the void.
I tried looking up that old blog, but I forgot how to log into that online account. Then I remembered having archived all those old posts in a Word document somewhere. I searched for that file, but came away empty-handed. I looked in my computer, old social media profiles, ancient emails and my external hard drive. I even checked my cloud and found nothing. I got nothing. I looked for so long I forgot where I was going with this whole thing, and so I stopped. Instead of desperately typing key words into Finder for another hour, I’ll just get on with it.

Chivalry isn’t dead. That old post was wrong. I was wrong. I’m an idiot, and I’m glad I grew out of that mindset. Don't worry; there are still people out there who are thoughtful, courteous, generous and charming. The knights of the chivalrous army exist and they’re here to remind us that some folks still have an enviable sophistication to them.

Today, I don't even define chivalry as a uniquely masculine concept. It's 2015 and women can be chivalrous too. We were born to be chivalrous. We’re expected to be polite, courteous and gracious the moment we shoot from the womb. Modern-day chivalry is unisex and rare.

Google defines it as follows:

You’ll notice, nowhere in the above definition does it say “complimentary.” It’s not implied, listed or even mentioned. From what I gather, the men of this medieval knightly system did not appear obligated to give women compliments. What they were required to do was be gracious.

Compliments aren’t part of a noble code of conduct. They’re nice things we say about and to one another. They’re tricky and they aren’t usually invited. That’s not to say they’re all unwanted. It just means that folks don’t usually ask for them outright. They can be many things including alluring, charming, distracting and even creepy. And, when you’re working with a real peach of a person, they’re backhanded.

Despite the fact that chivalry and compliments are two very different things, I’ve heard many folks insist that by bluntly rejecting compliments, women are single-handedly killing chivalry. As mentioned, I used to be one of those people. I have since learned that sometimes giving a compliment is the least chivalrous thing one can do.

The ladies know what I’m talking about, but I must say, I did feel that collective masculine eye roll just now.

Last month Charlotte Proudman called out a LinkedIn connection for creepily commenting on her looks after accepting her request to connect.

Proudman told Alexander Carter-Silk, in no uncertain terms, that she’d been offended by his message. Yeah, she may have gone a tad overboard rebuffing his remarks, but she definitely got her point across.

When I shared this story with my husband, I told him I agreed with Proudman. The moment I said that, he shot me a pointed look, which seemed to ask if I’d lost my damn mind. My jaw hit the floor in disbelief the moment I caught sight of his reaction.

“Does that mean I shouldn’t compliment you anymore, since compliments are sexist now?” my husband asked. “That’s not what I meant,” I replied. Irritated, he snapped, “Christ! Chivalry is dead.”

I'd shared this same article on social media previously and had gotten the same kind of response from other folks. Lots of people saw Proudman's behavior as evidence that chivalry was either dead or dying. Even I used to think bitchy women coming down on nice guys for giving them compliments, was actively contributing to chivalry’s demise. Who was I to judge, right? Well, I’m older and wiser now and I’m Jane motherfucking Smith, that's who.

First of all, chivalry does not specifically involve giving compliments. I believe I’ve already established that. Second, it’s not so much that these compliments aren’t welcome. A beautiful, well-timed compliment is a work of art and always appreciated.

But alas, you are not Jack Nicholson, I am not Helen Hunt and this is not As Good as It Gets.

The actual problem is that people expect women to be grateful that someone found us (or one of our body parts) attractive enough to comment on openly. Did my careful wording fail me? This is probably one of those instances where it’s better to be direct, so let me rephrase.

What the fuck do I care what you think of my physical appearance? Better yet, what do any of us care what you think of our faces, lips, legs, ass, tits, eyes, profile pictures, hair cuts, outfits, etc.?

That's harsh. I know; I totally just pulled a Proudman. However, it has to be harsh because people are harsh. As women, we’re not usually running into positive, life-altering compliments like the one in the video above. Oh no, my friend. Most of the time we’re getting told what people would like to do to us. Other times strangers critique specific body parts. And sometimes we’re being told we’re ugly or unfukcable. None of it is welcome or appreciated. What’s more, oftentimes the “compliments” come out of left field, at inappropriate times and in inappropriate settings such as LinkedIn.

Chivalry isn’t dead; it’s just misunderstood. The next time you want to grace some woman with your uninvited judgment of her physical appearance, ask yourself first if the chivalrous thing to do would be to keep your trap shut.

Note to husbands, boyfriends, manfriends, etc.:

Compliment your woman. If you're already together, timing isn't really an issue for you. This is not some feminist double-edged sword to use as a get-out-of-jail-free card. Be sincere and don’t be a dick. Chicks dig that.

Are we done yet? Is this enough? Are the armed enthusiasts ready to give a little so the rest of us can quit thinking we’re going to get shot every time we leave the house?

I get it. A lot of you like your guns. That’s great. I like movies. We should all have special interests and hobbies; it makes for a healthy brain. You know what doesn’t make for a healthy brain? A bullet in the head.

There are simply too many bullets flying around outside now to ignore our miserable gun laws. You want guns for sport? Great. Have them! Be inextricably linked to them so they’re harder to steal and use for criminal activity. You want a cabinet full of weapons? Cool. Take in-depth classes that require you to keep your skills sharp like the day you bought them. If you love your guns so much, work to keep them. Give a little.

This is not about red or blue anymore. This is not about right or left. This is now life or death. That’s not hyperbole, that’s fact. It’s a fact and it’s bullshit.

Look Gun Lovers, we have tried it your way. It has been your way for some time, and as we can see in the chart above, that didn’t stop the dots from popping up on the timeline. Guns for everyone didn’t make our schools safer. Guns for all didn’t make churches safer. And, guns everywhere didn’t make going to the movies any safer, either.

Can we stand together as a nation and say enough is enough now? No? Am I being naïve? Oops, my bad. How many more mass shootings do you think we need on the books before Gun Lovers and law makers will consider a change in policy? Is fifteen enough? Would it make a difference if animals were getting shot up too? Would that speed up the decision making process? Maybe we should start shooting up babies, you know, like infants since the tiny lives lost at Sandy Hook didn’t seem to make enough of an impact.

I know. I sound crazy, but then, so do those of you who won’t budge on gun policy. It is time for a change. Admit it. We’ve got a problem.

Update: Less than 24 Hours Later...

Less than 24 hours ago I posted the above and asked what it would take to make a change. I asked how many more shootings. I asked if actual infants needed to die for us to stop bickering and do something. Well, an infant has died. Six-month old Aavielle Wakefield died, struck by a stray bullet while riding in the car with her mom. Less than 24 hours later. Enough.

There’s tragedy everywhere. Trust me, I read the news every day, every stupid day. I do it because, sometimes I write about current events, and I do it because I like staying informed. Plus, I’m a bit of a masochist.
When I choose to write about current events I scan my Facebook feed first. I like to see what’s going down in real time whilst having my morning coffee and connecting with friends. On Tuesday I was scrolling to see what was trending online. While scrolling, I came across a post from NBC Bay Area. In the post, a woman named Maria Vasquez was quoted and it broke my heart. Here’s what it said:

Imagine losing everything you have to a fire when you’re the single mother of four (two teens, a nine year old and a 21 year old with disabilities). Man, I get overwhelmed just writing that out. To top it all off, she didn’t have insurance, so she’s effectively screwed.

I don’t know what it was about her story in particular that got me, but it did. It got to lots of us because several folks commented, asking where they could donate to her. I looked for a place to do so myself, but only found general fundraiser information. I wanted to help, but I specifically wanted to help Maria Vasquez and so I set up a Go Fund Me for her.

You ever read a news article and feel an urgent need to help? Well, that’s what happened to me on Tuesday. Usually, I sit there until the moment passes, but this time I didn’t. This time I got off my ass and put my money where my mouth was.

I set a lofty goal of 10k and I’ve got a couple hundred bucks so far. If you’re reading this and you’ve donated. Thank you for trusting that I’m going to get Maria this money. I’ve contacted NBC Bay Area so they can connect me with Ms. Vasquez and I’ll be posting updates as this process moves along.

I’ve never done any crowdfunding, so I’m kind of at a loss as to how to proceed. If any of you good people have tips or advice, I’m all ears. Please comment below or feel free to send me an email.

Not too long ago I was at a BBQ at a friend’s place. My husband Christoph and I were having a great time. We didn’t really know anyone at this thing aside from the couple that had invited us and that was just fine by me. By “just fine” I mean horrifically terrifying because deep down, within this loud and abrasive exterior, I’m shy. Christoph is the exact opposite. He doesn’t mind a sea of new faces. He’s good at being flawless. It’s irritating and makes me want to choke the life slowly from his eyes, but I don’t because I love him.
Christoph was having a great time at this party. He’d already dashed in and out of a couple different conversations, always exiting on a positive note. The man’s charisma is palpable. His ease with others makes everyone comfortable around him and it’s fun to watch. I, on the other hand, awkwardly attempted to chat up complete strangers in another part of the backyard whilst wondering if I’d lost my ability to interact with other humans since I started working from home, in a brand new city.

I was knee-deep in a “How do you know so and so? What do you do for a living?” kind of conversation when I overheard someone talking behind me. I didn’t want to be rude to the nice folks that were entertaining my banal conversation, but what the gentlemen behind me said, lit my rage fire instantly. “Pardon me for just a moment,” I said as my eyes began to flicker orange, red and blue with the fire of a thousand offended minorities.

With nothing more than a sentence, this guy had made my ears ring with chaotic fury. His words were still hanging in the air when I twirled around, ready for a showdown. “Just the word Mexican kind of carries negative connotations, doesn’t it?” I could still hear his thought ricocheting off the inside of my skull when I opened my mouth to speak. Luckily for the folks I was boring with my inane questions, shit got real interesting, real fast.

“Actually, I’m Mexican. What do you mean it has negative connotations?” I inquired. Meanwhile, in my head, all I could hear were my ears ringing wildly. I was hoping against hope that I hadn’t raised my voice when I had asked my question. The truth is, I legitimately wanted to know what he was getting at when he said that. I assumed he meant that we all look like undocumented, rapist, drug-dealing immigrants to him. I was guessing he didn’t think we could also be American as apple pie. I’m sure he didn’t think a Mexican might look or sound like me. “Really?” the young gentleman asked, after I’d stated my ethnicity. “Yep,” I said.

“Say something that makes you not an asshole. Please don’t be another one of those people who think all Mexicans are toilet scrubbers. I thought you were cool, man. C’mon. Don’t let me lose faith in humanity at a BBQ full of semi-strangers.” These were the thoughts that flashed in my head as I waited for him to respond. To his credit, he took a moment to gather his thoughts. Clearly, he was making an effort to be more careful with his words and that gave me hope. “Shit. What I meant was that everything you ever hear, as it relates to Mexico, is almost always negative,” he began earnestly.

“On the news no one is celebrating people for being of Mexican descent. Plus, you don’t hear about Mexico’s beautiful beaches, just the drug lords. That’s all you get. Right?” he asked. I nodded as I began to smile. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m here then. Now you know for a fact that all Mexicans aren’t dirty criminals who work the system and can’t speak the language. Sometimes we’re regular people, like everyone else.” He smiled back at me, exhaled a cloud of relief and responded with a simple, “yeah.”

That guy turned out to be an all right dude. He isn’t a bigot or racist at all. He doesn’t seem angry or intolerant. He’s good people and I suppose that’s what makes this happy ending sad for me. What I learned from this exchange was that sometimes even good, smart people think negatively of my heritage. That’s what I found most disappointing at the time. It’s that same reality which disappoints me to this day.

It was disheartening to hear how little some thought of Mexico. In actuality, it’s dumbfounding when you take into account just how deeply ingrained Mexican culture already is in American society. I suspect people spend so much time thinking “all things Mexican” are bad that they forget about Taco Tuesdays, Cinco de Mayo happy hours, their favorite Mexican restaurant, Tequila and Salma Hayek (Gael Garcia Bernal for the ladies, because equality is what it’s about).

Sadly, good people will likely continue to think poorly of the country that brought them all those wonderful things. As for me, I’ll continue to hear what I’ve always heard when someone says “Mexico.” I’ll hear jubilant music and smell delectable foods. Instead of hostility, I’ll feel a warm and familiar embrace. I’ll see bright clouds of color. I’ll hear my family’s boisterous laughter. I’ll giggle at their inside jokes. I’ll miss their voices and traditions. I’ll feel the sun kissing my face as I sit on a bench in the zócalo, drinking my soda out of a plastic bag. Who needs negative connotations when you can have all this instead?

Direct eye contact has magical powers. You wanna know how I know? ‘Cause every time I employ some, things fall into place. People these days are so wrapped up in looking at their phones that they can’t bother to break that glazed gaze unless shit has somehow gotten real, IRL. Trust me, no one’s looking at you. No one cares that you’ve walked into their field of view. You’re this faceless, nameless being that exists somewhere in the periphery, unimportant and undetected.
We’re all undetected periphery to everyone else, and that’s just fine. We’d blow a fuse if we earnestly tried to connect with every joker that crossed our path. Could you imagine attempting to have a meaningful relationship with everyone that comes in and out of your daily existence? I’m gonna have to invoke the almighty Roger Murtaugh here and insist that I’m too old for this shit.

Seeing as we’re all white noise in someone else’s movie, forcing a person to accept that they’re dealing with another human being by looking them dead in the eyes, tends to be jarring. What’s more, it gets things done. If you don’t believe me, give it a try and get back to me.

Personally, I lead with direct eye contact whenever attempting to actually accomplish something. Despite how it’s perceived, I don’t do it to be confrontational. I do it to signal that I’m here. I’m present and will be fully engaged in the exchange that follows. I also do it because I hate when people approach me and then can’t bring themselves to look me in the face while talking to me. That’s nonsense, and I do not accept.

As grown human beings we should be able to look someone in the face when we’re talking to them, especially if we’re asking something of them. I get being shy. I myself am shy, no matter what it looks like from over there. Despite being somewhat timid, I’m still fully capable of biting the bullet and directing my undivided attention to another person while interacting with them. I do it out of courtesy and I expect the same in return. I don’t think it’s too much to ask to be acknowledged as a human being while being spoken to. If it is, kill me now ‘cause I won’t be able to deal with a lifetime full of eye-averting cowards.

Because direct eye contact can be seen as combative and intimidating, it’s not always welcome. Nevertheless, for me it’s 100% effective. For example, I traveled to Colorado once for a show. I flew all the way from San Francisco to Denver to see a band at a cool venue. Since I’d spent a bunch of money to go to this concert, I made sure to get to the venue early. I’m not the only psycho fan and I knew there’d be a line to get in well before doors opened that evening.

I stood in line outside the Fillmore sweating like an animal in oppressive, shoe-melting heat that day. For well over two hours I hydrated, made conversation with fellow concertgoers and cursed the sun for searing my skin. It’s a lot, I know, but it’s what I do. It’s what many of us do because I see a lot of familiar faces whenever I’m at one of these gigs. The guy that later attempted to jack my spot when I left momentarily to get drinks was not one of those faces.

My friend Isabel had made the trip to Denver with me. She too is a psycho fan and braved the heat alongside me for hours. She was just as tired and excited as I was by the time we got to go inside. When the doors opened, we swiftly made our way through security and headed directly toward our usual spot. When we got to the stage, we found some space up along the guardrail and settled in. Once we figured out where everything was located, my friend made her way to the merch booth. She wanted to get a t-shirt and hit the bathroom before the show. I stayed back to hold our spots.

When Isabel reappeared, she had drinks, bless her soul. Because we were dehydrated from baking in the sun, we sucked those babies down like water. Unfortunately, they weren’t water and the gin just made us thirstier. I decided I’d go get us refills and asked her to hold my spot along the railing while I was gone. She obliged and I made my way to the nearest bar. I got us a couple of doubles, and with one overfilled cup of glory in each hand, I walked gingerly back to where I’d left my friend.

When I got back, I found some bro with a buzz cut harassing Isabel. As I caught sight of this, I hastened my step. As I approached, I made a point to listen to their exchange. I heard my friend responding defiantly, insisting that she was saving a spot for someone. Unfortunately, Buzz-Cut Bro didn’t seem to care what she was saying because he wasn’t backing down. It made me furious.

When I approached, I looked at Isabel and then over at Buzz-Cut Bro. Holding my enormous drinks, I smiled big and looked him square in the face. Leaning in I said non threateningly, “Hi! Is there a problem? I asked her to hold that spot for me.” Then I flashed another mile-wide smile, cocked my head to one side and stared this man down. I held his gaze hoping he wouldn’t be a dick about it and blatantly push us out of there. If this jerk was intent on stealing our spots, I was going to make him say the words to my motherfucking face before he could proclaim victory.

To my surprise, instead of telling me to fuck off, the guy immediately softened his expression, flashed a toothy smile, put his arm around me and gave me a half-hug. I winced internally because who hugs complete strangers? Oblivious, he responded, “Oh no there’s no problem at all, honey. I’m so sorry I didn’t realize this was your spot.” To which I responded, “hell yes it is, I melted my face off in the sun for over two hours to get that spot.” With that I let out a loud, warm laugh and touched his shoulder reassuringly. I wanted to be real with this dude, but I didn’t’ want to be a complete bitch about it and so I went with reciprocating the uninvited shoulder touch. It worked because moments later we laughed off the exchange and parted ways. Buzz-Cut Bro was going to have to find somewhere else to stand because this spot was mine tonight.

Had I not rolled into this exchange fully aware of what I was doing, and confident in my perspective, he would have bullied his way into my line of sight. He was a big, stalky guy that commanded space. He looked like he expected people to give him his way because that was all he ever knew. Not today though, because I came at him with direct and confident eye contact, which completely threw him off.

If I had rolled up to Isabel and Buzz averting my eyes, unsure of my words and myself, he would have laughed us both out of there. Instead, I kept my spot and enjoyed the show without straining my neck trying to see over some tall person’s shoulders. Being a short, doe-eyed chick sometimes has its advantages. It makes people not want to punch me right away when I challenge them. I use this to my advantage every chance I get. Find your own disarming quality, play it up the next time you stare someone down and you’ll be amazed at what you can accomplish.

Still unsure if direct eye contact is for you? Try it out in one of following scenarios:

When you’re stuck at a four-way stop with three people who have no idea who should go next. You know who should go next because you were paying attention. Look them dead in the eye. The moment they meet your gaze, they’ll figure it out and things will move along smoothly. Just watch.

Upon meeting new people. Look them in the eye and make sure to check your handshake. Ensure that you’ve got a firm and confident grip going. Don’t be the wimp/pretentious jerk with the loose hand. No one likes loose hand.

When someone’s coming at you on the sidewalk, knowing full well they’re headed straight for you. You don’t want to get shoulder checked. If they’re just trying to bulldoze through you, make and hold direct eye contact. You’ll be given more space to get by or they might even move out of your way entirely.

When you’re in your car and another driver blocks the intersection in front of you. You won’t really be able to look them in the face, but at least they’ll feel you drilling holes into their temple with your intense stare. All you stand to gain from this, though, is spiteful release, which is entirely acceptable because how dare they?

I could go on, but you get the idea. Don’t be a wimp, not when it matters. Knowing what to do isn’t hard. Figuring out what matters enough to warrant defiantly locking eyes with someone is the tricky part. Expend your energy wisely. Time and energy are all we've got.

This is exactly why I don't view Donald Trump as a joke. Sure his hair looks like a giant Harvest Cheddar Sun Chip. Yes, his face has aged into what looks like a pile of blushing mashed potatoes*, but what he says is real and lots of people agree with him. You might think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not. It’s horrifying, yes, but it’s also true.

You might not be able to tell just by reading what I write online, but I am friendly with a good number of conservative folks. Political views that don’t align with mine don’t offend me and my friends and family understand this. In fact, I rather enjoy conversing at length with people who have contrasting views. I appreciate hearing about what it’s like for the conservatives and I relish attempting to grasp the concepts behind their political structure. Ultimately, I suppose I just like learning. Because of this I’ve met some wonderful people on the other side of that great divide.

Candid, educated conservatives can be great folks, but Trump is not one of those people. This guy is a bully with a whole lot of money who has a knack for pitching ideas. That might sound ludicrous considering how many times he’s put his foot in his mouth recently, but it’s not, because he seems to be pretty good at knowing his audience too. Look, if this man didn’t know how to hustle the shit out of people he wouldn’t have been able to come back from bankruptcy four freakin’ times.

Trump gets right to the point and doesn’t mince words, unlike his conservative compadres.

While usually those are commendable traits, that is not the case with The Donald. In reality he’s just pitching us an over simplified business plan, one where everything is black and white and there is no middle grey. If this plan is to be successful he needs a bad guy, someone who people can blame for single-handedly destroying America. What he needs is an villain, someone easy to hate. And what better enemy than the people who shouldn’t even be here to begin with, am I right?

It probably sounds crazy to you, especially if you’ve ever hired an undocumented worker to cut your grass, clean your toilets, watch your kids, or cook your food. An upstanding American citizen would never do such a thing, I know. And yet, many, many undocumented immigrants do exactly that for scores of Americans & American businesses every single day. I’m looking at you, Mr. Trump.

Do you guys really think undocumented immigrants leave their desk jobs behind in their native lands excited about serving school lunches and busing tables in America? Don’t look so surprised. I’ve met many an office dweller that has ended up in this country mopping floors and taking out the trash because they were forced to immigrate illegally. Weird how that happens.

What’s even weirder is that they keep coming and people keep hiring them. It seems the need is there. Wouldn’t it be grand if we could fix our horrifically backlogged and broken immigration system so people could get their fruit picked, hotels cleaned, and houses built legally?

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, no one wants to come here illegally. No one wants to get a fake social security number and pay into a program that will never benefit them. No one wants to be looked at like they’re subhuman. No one wants to feel like trash. Unfortunately, lots of people want to feel better about themselves and all too often, the only way they can manage that is by attacking the enemy. Trump’s dangerous because he provided that enemy by offering up the most vulnerable among us and it’s too late to back track now.

*No, I don’t feel obligated to stick to my No Personal Attacks rule when speaking of Mr. Trump. He called all undocumented immigrants rapist, drug dealing Mexicans and because I’m a first generation, Mexican-American woman I reserve the right to call this sorry sack of shit whatever the fuck I want.

People online really enjoy calling Nicki Minaj a whore. A lot of these folks don't approve of her being hypersexual. They don't like that her lyrics are vulgar and they certainly don't appreciate that her videos are about as steamy as soft-core porn. I suppose I can understand the disapproval. Not everyone likes the same things, but why should this disapproval make her a whore? How does it convert her into trash that we’re supposed to despise? It's OK if you don't have any answers for me because I asked the Internet and this is what they told me.
Yesterday while floating around social media, I came across this post in my Facebook feed:

For those of you unwilling to click the above, I’ll summarize the Refinery 29 post because I’m a giver and I respect you even if you’re too lazy to click the link and read it your damn self.

Apparently some folks took it upon themselves to pose suggestively with Nicki Minaj’s wax figure at Madame Tussauds. In the spirit of keeping it real, I’ll be honest. The pictures are kind of funny. The image of the guy pretending to do the wax figure doggy style (with a fist full of its hair wrapped around his hand) goes a bit too far, but I chuckled when I saw that one too.

To be completely clear, the pictures folks posted of themselves with Minaj’s figure didn’t really offend me. The way people reacted to the Refinery 29 post did.

The first commenter implied that Madame Tussauds could have depicted Minaj in a less suggestive pose. I hear ya, girl and so does Azalea Banks. The next person said this was the classiest pose they’ve ever seen Nicki Minaj in. After that one, the comments snowballed into an avalanche of hate. Eventually people began to righteously declare that if Nicki wanted respect she shouldn’t have put herself out there so suggestively. In essence, folks were pointing fingers at Minaj. Apparently this was all her fault. Nicki is the one who wears next to nothing in her videos. She’s the one crawling around on all fours. She’s the one with lyrics about anal sex and drug dealers. Why should anyone respect that?

If you’re nodding in agreement, fuck you. Go away. I’ve got nothing more to say to you. If you’re wondering where the hell I’m going with this, take my hand and let’s dive in together.

Minaj makes it a point to objectify herself and she does so spectacularly. In fact, she’s so good at it that it’s helped her break records, glass ceilings and make millions. To me, this makes her a savvy businesswoman, just like Kim Kardashian.

I can feel the disgust oozing from your face right now, but hear me out.

Women are objectified all day, every day in order to make a buck, right? I’m not saying it’s wrong or right. I’m just stating a fact. If you don’t believe me, here are some examples of what I’m talking about.

This sort of imagery isn’t an uncommon sight when you flip through the pages of magazines. As a matter of fact, this brand of objectification is pretty standard, wouldn’t you agree?

My only question now is, why is it OK for big companies, fashion houses, and burger chains to utilize women’s bodies to make money, but it’s not OK when a woman does the exact same thing utilizing her own image? Minaj is a pop star. This woman’s sexuality was going to be used to sell records, that’s a given, but because she owns it like a boss, she’s trash? Kim Kardashian made a sex tape and became famous. Instead of hiding in shame, she flaunts the body that brought her success. She’s also built a million-dollar empire, helped develop her own $200 million app, built a globally recognized brand and is, for all intents and purposes, a social media icon. However, because we’ve seen her sex tape, naked ass and titties, we label her a do-nothing whore.

I can't comprehend that because no one runs around telling men they're whores when they pose nude…

Or otherwise profit from their sexuality.

Nevertheless, we almost always do it to women. Why?

I suppose what I’m getting at is that owning one’s sexuality doesn't have to look any one way in particular. What's trashy to one person might not be to another. Sure, Nicki Minaj’s lyrics are as sexualized as her image, but that doesn't make her a whore. After all, DMX barked and growled in almost all of his songs and that didn't make him a pit bull.

So to all the folks that spent all day attempting to explain to me why Nicki Minaj doesn't deserve respect, I only have one thing to say to you. We should all expect respect, always, no matter what we wear or don't.

I swear I wanted to do a News Links post for you, but I couldn’t focus. My mind kept wandering and I figured if I couldn’t concentrate on reading the news, there was no way I’d be able to pull together anything interesting enough to share with you.
Today, instead of a News Links post, I’m gonna share some thoughts on the one item that refuses to disappear from my social media feeds: Kelly Osbourne’s sad attempt at defending Latinos.

I realize this isn’t exactly news, but it’s saturating my social media feeds and I’ve read entirely too many crazy comments to let it go. “I’m Mexican, I have family that are housekeepers and I’m totally not offended by what Kelly said. LOL Quit taking everything so seriously.” I can’t tell you how many comments like that I’ve sifted through. One’s bad, half a dozen is concerning, but 12 + had me rethinking my stance on what Osbourne had said.

When I first got wind of Kelly’s remarks I just rolled my eyes and went on about my business. What else was I supposed to do? Get outraged? Nah. Folks say a lot of derogatory things when relating to my people. Sometimes they don’t even realize what they’ve said is shitty, until I’ve begun contorting my face in reaction to their words.

You see, I’d have died of an anger-induced stroke by now if I were to fly into a rage every time someone assumed I was beneath them just because I’m Mexican. What Kelly Osbourne said was terrible for sure, but it didn’t come across as intentional. Intentional looks more like this:

What happened to Kelly felt more like a mistake or a poor choice of words. She misspoke. She made a generalization with negative connotations and accidentally equated all Latinos to, not just maids or janitors, but toilet scrubbers specifically. That’s not to say there’s no honor in scrubbing toilets, it’s honest work and somebody’s gotta do it. I appreciate everyone who takes care of that, so that I don’t have to. In my house, however, I’m the one scrubbing away.

What happened to Kelly was actually more telling of her perception of Latinos than Trump’s immigration grandstanding is of his. Trump’s saying what he thinks people want to hear. He’s telling voters they’re not alone in their contempt for these outsiders. He wants the everyman to think he’s on their side because he needs their help. Kelly, on the other hand, assumes she’s on our side, but accidentally ends up reducing an entire ethnic group to “the help.”

In reality, it wasn’t so much Kelly’s word choice that was infuriating. It was that she thought equating Latinos to toilet scrubbers was the best way to underscore just how integral immigrant labor has become to the daily lives of Americans. As if that weren’t enough, when her colleagues call her out on this, she refuses to even partake in the “debate” because that was obviously not what she meant, you guys. I suppose what Kelly didn’t realize was that no one wanted to debate anything, but an immediate apology would have been nice. It would have felt more sincere.

I suppose it comes down to this, you might as well have looked straight into the camera and told me that the help doesn’t require explanations because they’re the help, Kelly. You were so concerned about the impact of your poorly chosen words that you later crafted an official Facebook post to apologize for your gaffe, right? Why wait? If you saw that you crossed a line (and the reaction on the face of your Latina colleague should have been sufficient evidence of that) you should have explained yourself then & there. If you’re going to say something, own that shit, woman. Tell us how you didn’t mean to denigrate an entire ethnic group and give us the respect of an explanation. We deserve that much for cleaning your toilets, raising your kids, cooking your meals, and mowing your lawns. Wouldn’t you agree?

I have a “no personal attacks” rule that I try to stick to on the Internet and it fucking sucks. I think this actually might be why I curse so much right now. You see, long ago I used to be one of those “tell it like it is” people. Way back when, on *MySpace, I even documented this inability to argue without attacking, in my blog. This incarnation of me would bust in guns blazing, on all manner of occasions. It was too much, it was superficial and it was annoying. Sure, it was kind of funny, but almost always at someone else’s expense.

It didn’t really matter that I was insulting people in the news or that I knew in real life, either. I just wrote the first thoughts that came into my mind when reacting to something I’d read or experienced. Granted, I’d take the time to write the stories out the best I could. I worked to make them read well, make sense, and provoke reactions. All I wanted to do was make people laugh, so I figured no harm, no foul.

Welp, I was wrong. I realize now that what I was doing was feeding into the troll mentality. When you add your voice to the ether and you give it a troll’s intonation, you’re broadcasting that it’s OK to be somewhat verbally abusive. Being mean is acceptable, so long as there’s a punch line or a point. That's not to say that I’m clutching pearls over here. I realize that in comedy, people make fun of things all the time. I get it; that’s comedy, that’s comedy writing. Comments on the Internet, however, are not the same goddamn thing.

I used to work in an open office. What that means is that there are no walls separating employees. No one has a real office and there are no doors. We were to see one another as equals, not rungs on some metaphorical ladder. Even the conference rooms were made of glass. Transparency was for everyone in this office and it was horrifying. It took a while, but eventually I got over the fact that everyone could hear and see me at all times. Looking back, I’m unsure as to why I was so uncomfortable with this setting. After all, I’m an Internet nerd. This is where I live, and here, you’re always being watched, especially when you make comments on posts.

Back at this open-office gig, my colleagues and I would take great delight in peering awkwardly into conference rooms. We liked to do this whenever we caught our friends looking up from an infinitely boring meeting that was running predictably long. If we could get them to laugh quietly to themselves, we’d consider it a win. If they LOL-ed we’d scurry away, so we wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire of disapproving glances of objection, shot amongst the Big Dogs in the room.

Similarly, we’re all watching when your comment appears beneath a news article or some media outlet’s Facebook post. Most people won’t care about what you’re saying, some will agree, and lots will be combative. Think of comments more like conversations you’re having with other human beings in conference rooms with glass walls, because that’s essentially what they are.

The best part about working in an office with transparent conference rooms? Whenever two people would take their heated conversations into one of those spaces and proceed to have it out. Granted, this was an important office and these were all important people--not me, everyone else--so they almost always maintained decorum. Those of us on the outside, though, we all knew how to read the reactions. Every eye roll, shrug, and darting glance registered. We could plainly see when things were spinning out of control. Watching those "meetings" crash & burn was an office perk on the level of the free catered food. In addition to free office food, everyone likes a good soap opera, even fancy people in fancy clothes, doing fancy business.

What I’m getting at is that your comment wars are the soap operas of the Internet, guys. Everyone’s watching. Do you really want to be the irrational asshole that can’t get their argument straight and who devolved into a pile of personal attacks within the first two exchanges?

No one wants to be the raving lunatic because no one listens to crazy. Sure, you can verbally spar with some nimrod that’s either baiting you into it or completely oblivious, but where's the point in that? After it’s over, all you’ll have left is a record of how easily you can lose your cool, available online. It'll be there forever unless you delete it, but that would just make you a coward. So you see, you’re screwed either way.

This is not to say that posting jerk remarks will be easy to avoid. Spewing personal attacks at complete strangers is easy, especially when they don’t agree with what you’re trying to get across. As a matter of fact, nothing feels simpler when you’re sitting safely behind a keyboard and glowing screen. It can also be fun, I know. It’s exciting to fling out a burn at some asshole that’s just attempted to shut you down. Sometimes, it can even feel downright exhilarating to shut somebody up in no uncertain terms, but save your energy instead.

What good is it to shut the bad guy down if you become the asshole in the process? What are you, Donald Trump? You don’t wanna be Trump. I don’t even think Trump wants to be Trump. Sure the money must be nice, but let's be real for a minute here; no one gets that bitter by living a happy and fulfilling life.

Besides, insults are the easy way out. They’re the smoke bombs of the Internet. You fling a little mud, you distract from the conversation, and you’re out. It doesn’t matter what you were saying prior to that moment. Your views could have been valid or thought provoking, but you've just nullified all of that with a personal attack. You are now the troll and you know what they say about trolls: Online Trolls are literally losers according to study – wmur.com

Ultimately, you’re going to say the wrong thing to the wrong person and they’re either going to ruin your day, or you’re going to regret something you've said. Trust me. You will go entirely too far one day and the world will be just outside your glass conference room, watching as you crash and burn. Hell, I’ll probably be in the stands. Don't worry. I’ll let out a loud “woooooooooooo,” so you know it’s me.

I’m going to be honest with you. When someone shoots you down, it’s going to hurt. The takedown wont feel good, but the burns will heal. Contrastingly, when you’ve said something you regret, it sticks around much longer. It can ruin friendships and even jobs and you won’t even have made your point because, as I said earlier, no one listens to crazy.

If your objective online is just to harass people, you’re a miserable dick, plain and simple. (That’s not trolling, that’s just me being my usual abrasive and direct self.) Alternatively, if your objective is to actually connect with people, discuss issues, and gain perspective, then you might want to consider laying off the insults.

It bears mentioning that while it’s true that we should never feed the trolls, there’s nothing wrong with refuting their nonsense before exiting the show. No, there will be no winning, but someone will come along after you’ve gone, they’ll read your response, and they’ll know to ignore that idiot too. If someone disrespects you, address it if necessary, but tread ever so deftly. The battle for the Internet rages in every comment section, every day and we all become warriors the moment we toss our words into the ring. And Finally, here's my plea: Get on the good side and help us crush the bitter net of the 90s because if Skynet doesn’t get us, the asshole trolls will.

For what felt like days, I was in the middle of nowhere, stuck on the road with my husband and two dogs. In addition to the frustratingly crippling traffic, my little dog got car sick, several times.

The little guy yakked all over the place about an hour and a half into our journey. He repeated this horrific cycle a few times, making for a markedly uncomfortable road trip for everyone up front. The bulldog on the other hand, mostly relaxed in the back seat, soaking up the sun like a chill Sheryl Crow song.

Contrastingly, my husband was so annoyed with traffic that he wanted to stab everything in his way. He even wanted to stab me, in the face, with his words, every time I prodded him for conversation. I could tell even though he refused to admit it and the tension filled the car up quick, like a thick cloud of smoke intent on choking the fun out of all of us.

By the time we finally reached our hotel, we were spent. It was a thousand degrees outside and instead of being able to settle our dogs into their new space, we had to walk ‘em, feed ‘em, and run. We'd come all this way and endured all that traffic for a show. We had to go. We felt like jerks, but we had planned on arriving much earlier and there simply wasn't anything we could do. The misery the traffic had stirred up was beginning to bleed into everything else about that day.

After giving the dogs extra treats for being good sports, we bolted and made our way to Thunder Valley Casino Resort. As Christoph and I drove up, we noticed that the outdoor amphitheater didn't have any sort of canopy for shade. It was nothing more than a wide, open space with bleachers at one end and a large stage at the other. Chairs filled up the middle and Christoph & I were in the front row. The view was insane, the chairs comfortable and the setting beautiful, but still, it was distractingly hot.

Pepper opened the evening with an invigorating set. They got the place grooving before the sun even thought about going down. Every last person in that joint was jamming out to song after song of upbeat, in-your-face rhythm. A lot of folks had made an effort to get to the show early to see these guys. My friend Isabel was chief among those people. My husband too, he felt especially rushed to get there early enough to grab some drinks and socialize before we made our way to our seats. Once Christoph and I sat down, we realized exactly how front and center we actually were. I think these were the best assigned seats I’ve ever managed to get for a big show like that.

I was marveling at my view when I noticed that my legs were starting to sweat, heavily. The backs of my thighs sweat like a pedophile priest at the Pearly Gates when I overheat and it’s just as gross as it sounds. It was 106 degrees and we were ass-deep in drought-stricken California heat. Lincoln, CA doesn’t look like a big town, but it’s got this fancy casino, which in turn has this wonderful outdoor venue with no shade.

The outdoor amphitheater was actually great in every other respect, which I found confusing at first. The place was set up perfectly, there were lots of seats and they all looked to have awesome views. The sunset was going to be amazing from this location, but jesusfuckingchirst it was hot as balls. I’m sorry, guys, there is just no better way of putting it. It was warm, but being Mid-Atlantic transplants we were just glad it wasn’t a steamy, swamp-ass kind of hot. Instead, we were experiencing more of a dry heat.

So, whilst our skin cells evaporated clean off our bodies in this musical oven, we drank. My husband and I each had a couple of gin & tonics because we’re a team and it’s what we do. After one and a half, though, we’d had enough. We were afraid of spontaneously combusting due to prancing around in the heat with elevated blood alcohol content levels.

Soon we realized that we were going to have to focus on staying hydrated instead of starting a cocktail party in the front row of this particular show. We switched to bottles of water early on and hoped against hope that the sun would hurry up and set already.

Once Pepper hit the stage, their music pushed the heat to the back of everyone’s mind and they gave us all a reason to dance. Their set felt like a party from beginning to end. It was most like a celebration of the sound that makes these guys popular. No one wanted to see them go, but while they wrapped it up, they kept the energy concentrated and uplifting.

As Pepper left the stage they walked past Christoph and I to head out. Yesod Williams (drummer) looked over, drum sticks in hand, and smiled as I let out a loud and drawn out, “c’mon maaaaannn.” With a chuckle, he tossed me a stick and because I’m not the best at catching, I didn’t catch it. It landed about three feet from me, on the opposite side of the fence I was standing behind. When it hit the ground, I looked at it, looked back at Williams and then back at the stick. Finally, I just ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ and summoned the biggest smile I could muster.

Homeboy smiled back, shook his head bemused and peaced out. It was hilarious and the moment was better than the stick. Besides, I’m way too old to be crawling around on the floor, dipping under fences, to retrieve concert memorabilia. Plus, I was wearing a short dress and trying to keep things under wraps.

As Williams departed, a chick that had come to the show with the group of guys standing to my left, dove under the fence and triumphantly returned with the drum stick. “Nice work,” I thought as I looked over at her. “There’s no way I could have gone after it, not with this dress on.” I said to Christoph. He smirked, giggled and agreed.

As the girl was returning to her seat, one of the gents with her said what sounded like, “…But he threw it to her. He meant to give it to her, specifically," as he raised his left hand and pointed directly at me. When I saw this, I smiled nervously, uninterested in fighting to the death for a drum stick that may have been tossed in my general direction, but which I had clearly opted out of diving for.

Then, the most amazing thing happened. The woman thought about it for a second, ¯\_(ツ)_/¯, smiled, and handed me the stick. Dumbstruck, I smiled wide like a child who’d just been offered an ice cream cone. Elated, I took it and thanked her profusely. “Faith in humanity restored at a Pepper performance, how awesome,” I thought to myself as I turned back toward the stage.

By this time, Kaleo Wassman (Vocals / Guitar) had made his way past the fans at the other end of the stage and was standing in front of Christoph and I. He had been throwing out guitar picks as he was walking out and paused when he got to me.

I knew the moment he stopped and smiled at me, that he was mocking my inability to catch that damn drum stick. This guy has a great smile, though, so it was hard to care about being mocked at the time. Furthermore, I always yell for stuff at concerts because stuff rarely gets thrown at me, so usually I’m safe. It is simply what I do and today it had gotten me two already memorable exchanges, despite dropping the stick.

In all honesty, I'm in it for the yelling, anyway. As an adult, it’s not really OK to run around yelling all the time, or at all even--it’s annoying and frowned upon. Because of this, there are few instances where it’s acceptable to shout. When we were kids, we could shout at recess or just because. As adults, we are not afforded this luxury and so I capitalize on any opportunity where it’s acceptable for grown folks to get loud.

As the resident loud person I shout-sing at concerts, in cars and while cleaning. I shout at organized sporting events. I shout at the screen when I watch boxing events. I shout whenever I can sneak it in, probably because I spend so much of my time typing silently at my desk. And, as you may have guessed by now, I shout whenever a performer ends a show and starts throwing stuff out at the audience. Usually, they ignore me, but this was not one of those times.

As I was saying, Wassman was clearly in it for the mockery when he took my hand, placed a guitar pick in the center of my palm and gently closed my fingers around it, thereby ensuring that I "catch" this guitar pick, but it didn't matter. Excited, I thanked him for the pick with a dorky smile and then we all laughed at the mockery. As he and Bret Bollinger (bass / Vocals) left the stage area, I turned to my husband and said, “Oh my God, Pepper just made fun of me and it was awesome!” My husband simply shook his head at me in amused disbelief.

Pepper was done and now there was nothing left for us to do, but bake in the sun and wait. Christoph asked if I wanted to get some water and hang out under one of the shade tents, before 311 and I agreed. As I turned to gather my things, I looked down at the guitar pick that I was now clutching in my hand. I was about to drop it in my purse when it dawned on me that it would be lost forever the moment I did that. There are entire alternate universes in my purses and things have been known to go missing in there for years at a time, when I'm lucky.

Instead of losing this guitar pick forever, I decided I would give it to the woman that had given me my drum stick. What the hell was I going to do with the pick other than reminisce, anyway? Plus, that girl was now looking at me like “WTF I already gave her the damn drum stick and then this joker walks up to her and hands her an effing guitar pick?! Come on.” And so I walked over and said to her, “how about you take this instead?” She replied with that same wide, ice-cream smile and accepted with a kind thank you.

It was a wonderful moment and my favorite of the evening. Shortly thereafter, 311 took the stage, the sun set, and a glorious breeze hit the front row like a soft mist of relief. 311 came with it and put on a seamless show. The energy was high and the venue demonstrated why it’s an ideal location to hang out and listen to some music. In the end, even if I couldn't catch that drum stick, I caught a good time and that was the ultimate mission. I had come to do what I do every summer: celebrate with good music and great friends. That part always proves easiest.

People feel really strongly about fat women who refuse to hide and who—gasp—think of themselves as attractive. Personally, I think it’s great when people own what and who they are. For example, I’m this giant nerd who essentially lives on the Internet, is addicted to movies and still (after 20 years) follows her favorite band around the country like a fanatical teen. I know I'm not cool to most folks, but the thing is, I give less than zero fucks what anyone else thinks of how I choose to live my life and I gotta be honest, it feels better than great, it’s fantastic.
With that said, I admire anyone else who can lead their own life as they see fit without much regard for what others think. Tess Holliday is a great example of that. If you're unfamiliar with Tess, you likely won't be for long.

Holliday is a model, a rather large one at that, and she’s gorgeous. This woman exudes confidence, sexiness and beauty in every one of her professional photos. It’s fairly evident that she’s got something that makes others want to look her way. If she didn't, she wouldn't have been offered a modeling contract.

Nevertheless, to be completely upfront with you, the first time I saw Tess I was a little shocked. I’d never seen a model her size before and I wasn't sure how to process what I was looking at. Until Tess happened, most plus-size models I’d seen looked like this:

They don’t look too plus-sized do they? I know, but I also know a thing or two about fashion and I understand that regular-size models are much thinner than normal folks. I once heard a fashion designer explain that runway models were meant to be super skinny because they are supposed to be something akin to human hangers, used only to display the clothes and not distract from them. “They must be thin because the clothes need to drape properly,” she said “and that just isn’t possible with larger models.” I can never remember which designer said this, but I’ll never forget her words because boy did I feel like a cow after I heard them.

Plus-size models start at about a size 6. Yep, that’s right, most of us are plus-sized in the eyes of high fashion. I'll let that sink in for a moment. Accept and embrace this knowledge for it will allow you to give less fucks about those tiny numbers sewn into your clothes. Now that we're all aware that most of us are plus-sized in the eyes of the fashion industry, let’s get back to Tess.

When I first saw her pictures on Instagram it took me a while to get past her size. “Yes, she’s got a face that could inspire poetry,” I thought, “but a fashion model?” I wasn't sure how to deal with her size, which is weird because I'm all for diversity because diversity is, in fact, my jam. My initial inability to accept Tess as a model was alarming. At first I thought, “seriously?” Then I was like, “good for her, but seriously?” Then finally I thought to myself, “Dammit, Jane. Turns out you're nothing more than a pathetic, hypocritical bitch.”

Disappointed in myself, I quickly clicked away from that article about Ms. Holliday, so I didn't have to think about how I was letting myself down. A few days later, I saw another news post about her. Ever the glutton for punishment, I clicked and went to read. This time however, I wasn't shocked. I knew Tess was a size 22 going in and I knew full well what she looked like. There were new pictures of her in this article and I examined each one carefully.

The second time I saw Tess I didn't focus so much on her size, but her confidence, sensuality and her luxurious hair. This time I thought, “wow, she really is all kinds of stunning. I'm such an asshole for not seeing this right away.” The third time I saw Tess, her weight barely registered, but I couldn't take my eyes off her flawless face. The fourth, fifth and sixth times I saw her all I saw was a model, the very first of her kind, and she was simply beautiful.

I’d finally accepted that models, just like people, come in many shapes and sizes. I’d won back my soul and all felt right in the world. Then, two days ago, I clicked on a Huffington Post link that had found its way into my Facebook news feed. I’d been following Tess for some time now and I was curious to see how the pictures from her first official agency shoot had turned out. I was hoping they would be impeccable and I was not let down.

Delighted that Holliday had delivered, I scrolled down to the comments to see what the people of the Internet had to say about her great success. I should have known better, but being the glutton for punishment that I am, to the comments section I went.

I knew I’d see a bunch of posts from assholes calling her a whale, a fattie, ugly, gross, etc. That stuff is always present because miserable Internet dwellers (i.e. trolls) love nothing more than to shart all over a good time, so others end up feeling as inadequate as they do. It’s sad, it’s pathetic and it’s easy to spot and avoid.

The regular trolls didn't make much of an impact. The concern trolls, on the other hand, lit my rage fire.

In this instance, the concern trolls were worried about Tess’ health. They were worried that she was setting a bad example for kids. They were worried she was creating yet another unattainable standard of beauty for women. They were worried, y'all. They were concerned for the youth, the state of our nation and the future of the human race.

Against my better judgment I kept reading. Being the loud-mouthed defender of justice and supporter of diversity that I am, I wanted to respond to each and every one, but I didn’t. Instead, I responded to only two comments. The first was from a man who declared that being Tess’ size was simply “unhealthy and should not be encouraged as a positive body image.”

My eyes rolled so hard when I read that comment that I sprained an extraocular muscle. I wanted to click away, but it was no use. Before I knew it, I was typing a response. I had written out this long diatribe about how a positive body image is not about achieving some ideal weight, shape, or fitness level, but accepting what you've got and appreciating all of it. When I finished, I realized everything I'd written would be lost on this guy and every other concern troll in his wake, so I deleted it and replaced it with:

“Thanks Doc, but no one is telling anyone she is the new standard of beauty. The message here is to embrace diversity.”

I figured those two sentences conveyed everything I had initially intended on saying. In case this part is still unclear to some of you, here’s something from Medical News Today that might help.

And so you see, Tess Holliday is not encouraging others to achieve her body type. She’s simply reveling in the beauty that she already possesses. She’s making people like me look twice, think, absorb and accept that beauty comes in all kinds of shapes and sizes. She’s broadening our spectrum of beauty and we should be thanking her, not feigning concern for her health or the health of others who might see her and attempt to emulate her shape.

Make no mistake; the world still wants you to be thin (Yes all of you, even those of you with dadbods.) The world still wants you to be rich. The world still wants you to dream of unattainable luxury and beauty because the people who finance this world make lots and lots of money off those dreams.

Tess Holliday isn't telling you to be like her, she’s telling you to be you and to own that shit, which is why I told the aforementioned troll the following, after he responded to my first comment with a personal attack:

“…Opinions are great, hell, make that grand, but when you hide them behind statements like "this looks unhealthy" when you're either not a doctor or a doctor so horrid he'd be willing to asses someone's health based simply on an image, they lose all validity. It's fine if you can't appreciate this particular woman's beauty. It's clear (judging by all the nasty comments) that you're not alone in this. However, if you're going to have an opinion, don't hide it behind health. If you don't like it, just say so and leave the health aspect out of it, Doc.”

In closing, get out there and own it, y'all. Live a Photoshop-free existence and make no apologies. Own every last thing about how you look and try not to sprain your eye muscles when you run into misinformed folks who can't help but run their mouths about stuff they clearly don't understand. Show them that embracing diversity isn't a trend, it's a goddamn lifestyle choice.

I’m a tenacious motherfucker. I’ll be the first to admit to my obsessive ways. Sometimes (not often, but sometimes) this works out to my benefit; for example, when I buy concert tickets. It’s like I’m an idiot savant and I’m really only good at getting hard-to-get tickets. Seriously, if I spot a show I simply must see, I’ll certainly have my hands on a pair of more-than-decent seats come show day. I’d rather be super good at math, but instead I got this. Whatever.

On the positive side, I’ve seen some crazy shows. I’ve been damn near crushed under a raging crowd at a Cypress Hill performance deep in D.C.—it was terrifyingly glorious. At that same festival, I watched Eminem captivate thousands and command they back down so the show could go on, without incident and he succeeded. He saved the day when the local cops could not and then we all celebrated with a Jay-Z performance. I’ve seen it all. I shit you not. Like I said, tickets I can get, a handle on life, not so much. I suppose that’s all right because who really does?

Anyway, being the tenacious, live-performance loving and experience-addicted human being that I am, I scored tickets to see Dave Chappelle recently at two distinctly intimate venues. Not only am I tenacious, I’m lucky. You see, Chappelle is essentially my comedy hero. I can’t handle his brain and I love that. Comedy is just as much my jam as any concert and so you can imagine how excited I was when I was able to snag seats to a couple of shows he did recently in Santa Cruz and San Francisco.

I’m not going to review Dave Chapelle’s performances because I wouldn’t even know how to go about doing that. Instead, I’ll tell you about something I heard this kid say as I passed his car on my way back to my own ride after the Santa Cruz show a few weeks ago.

As my husband and I walked back to our car, I overheard some guys talking about what they’d just seen. I couldn't quite make out what the first man was saying, but I could tell he was beside himself with joy. The guy that responded said, “That’s some bucket list shit right there, man! That was seriously amazing,” as he slid happily into his vehicle. When I passed his window, I immediately agreed verbally as if he’d been talking to me. “Hahaaa, yes” I said as I turned, looked at him, and nodded in vigorous agreement. Together, everyone smiled in recognition of the performance we'd just seen and we relished our geek-out moment for a fraction of a second. As we bonded, my mind jumped to my own bucket list moment featuring Chappelle. I think it's a good story and proof that magic exists in a good laugh, so here we go...

For Dave's show at the Punchline in San Francisco, I was tenacious enough to show up super early and stand in line for hours (freezing my butt off) to ensure my husband and I would secure a good spot inside this tiny club. Even so, standing in line was easy, getting the tickets was the hard part. This show was already sold out when I had heard about it, but I wasn't about to let that stop me from trying to get in. A couple hours later, after calling the venue, incessantly refreshing the web page where tickets were sold and then calling the venue some more, the impossible happened. Somebody ended up releasing their tickets just as I refreshed the website and after half an hour of clicking, I was rewarded with two golden tickets. As you can imagine, by the time I got to the club, I was excited beyond belief and Christoph was doing his best to keep me from OD-ing on adrenalin.

After talking, twiddling our thumbs and shivering for a couple of hours, we were finally let into the Punchline, slowly--group by group. Tickets were checked, IDs verified, and people were escorted to their tables to sit before the next set of folks were even allowed into the club. This lengthy process only served to intensify the excitement that had been building in my chest since the ticket fiasco. Luckily, my husband was around to make sure I didn’t explode into full hysteria. He's a life saver and always down for a show, even if it’s at midnight on a school night. We live reckless lives, y’all. What can I say?

When it was finally our turn to be checked in, we chatted up the event organizers. Everyone was really great and the gentleman that came to seat us was especially nice. As he showed us in, he asked us if we were aware that Dave smoked. Christoph and I both nodded and with that he said, “Great, then I’ll put you guys right up front.” Boom. My brain felt like it exploded when his words reached my ears. I thought to myself, “Nah, you misheard that. Shut up, dummy. No way.” As a matter of fact, I denied I’d heard anything remotely close to that as we snaked our way through the tables and chairs of the club. I denied it right up until we stopped next to the impossibly tiny stage.

“Anyone sitting on that stool, on this stage, is going to have me looking straight up their nostrils,” I thought to myself, as I took my seat. That’s the thing about getting really great spots at shows; you're awkwardly close to the performers. It’s cool, but then it’s also weird because you don't want to stare up their noses, but it’s kind of hard not to. After I'd sat down, I thought about what the friendly guy had said. He mentioned that Chappelle chain-smoked during his entire set. He wanted to be sure we were fine with smoke being blown in our faces all night. Meanwhile, I was secretly doing mental handstands because I was lucky enough to get picked to sit in his line of fire.

After the initial elation wore off, I took a few seconds to gather my thoughts. I realized then that Chappelle would likely need a light at some point during his set. Without a moment’s hesitation, I decided that if he did in fact ask for a light at any point during the evening, I was going to handle it. With this newfound resolve, I mentally added, “light Dave Chapelle’s cigarette” to my personal bucket list.

Back at the table, Christoph and I ordered drinks. We doubled up because we’re a fun-loving duo who can appreciate a stiff drink. As we settled in to wait some more, I asked my husband to let me hang onto his lighter. I was hoping he hadn't left it in the car and that he had it in a pocket somewhere on him. Lucky for me, after a bit of searching, a lighter popped up and into my hand.

I fidgeted with that damn lighter obsessively. Over and over again I flipped it around in my hands as we waited for our drinks to make their appearances at our table. I know my husband was thirsty too and we’d been waiting a long time... Crap. I was getting antsy.

Finally, the lights dimmed and he walked out. Dave Chappelle was standing less than six feet from my face, you guys. It was awkward and it was amazing. He settled into his set quickly and smoothly. He fed off the vibe of the diversely laid-back crowd and had what felt like a hilarious two-hour conversation instead of a comedy show.

When I think back, all I can remember is that I laughed so hard my face hurt and my eyes watered with delight. I even remember thinking to myself, “The man’s genius especially when he’s not trying. How is that even possible?” As I instinctively rolled my eyes at my pathetically sycophantic tendencies, I noticed that Chappelle was going for a cigarette. Immediately, I switched gears as I summoned a little courage and thought, “it's on.”

Then, just like magic, Dave Chappelle looks out into the audience and says, “Anyone got a light?” When I heard that, I snapped up and out of my chair like a goddamn robot on command. "Yep," was the best verbal response I could manage without getting tongue tied and so I went with it. Amused, he looked at me, stuck his cigarette in his mouth and leaned over. I flicked my Bic and sparked him up. Giddy, I pulled my arm back and sat down. That was when Dave looked over at Christoph and said, “she’s a keeper,” to which my all-mighty husband responded, “I know, that’s why I married her.” Boom again. Panties melted.

The whole thing was almost too much to take in. First, I arbitrarily decide I’m going to add “light a cigarette for Dave Chappelle” to my personal bucket list and then, hours later, it actually happens. Never once did I really think it would come to pass, but here I am with this story and lots of witnesses. Second, Chappelle interacted quite a bit with Christoph, me and the people sitting near us. It was like I was trapped in the most amazing Dali painting with Chappelle himself and I never wanted it to end. Third, I was sitting less than six feet from one of my all-time comedy heroes for an entire evening, listening to all new material. It felt beyond lucky and I’m not usually lucky, so I don’t even know how this happened. I’m just eternally grateful that it did. Remember, I collect stories and this was a doozey.

As it was happening, my mind felt like it was full of Fourth-of-July fireworks, all going off simultaneously. My ears burned warm with disbelief and I did my best not to trip over myself and piss on the whole damn thing. Ironically, this entire experience can be best summed up in a Dave Chappelle quote, which he attributes to the soon-to-be-famous Kanye West. When West is asked how he manages to find himself in unbelievable situations (like in a studio with Dave Chappelle, Talib Kweli, and Common), he responds: "...Because my life is dope and I do dope shit."

And while I will never be rich or famous, my life is already pretty dope and every so often, I do dope shit, too.

A Story by Dawn Del Sontro

Image Source: Herb Swanson via Discover New England

“Don’t touch that!” he shrieked at me his frightened voice many octaves higher than my normal voice. I barely managed to refrain from laughing at his terror and tried to avoid looking at him as I busied myself by brushing at the wet leaves stuck to my knees and shins.

“Oh, God Troy, don’t be such a baby,” I told him. I turned my back away from where he cowered and hunched down to inspect what we’d found on our adventure in the woods. He’d brought me, the resident school nerd and well-rounded dork, out here to do dirty things to me so that no one would know that he liked me. When I say liked me, I mean liked to have crazy naughty sex with me because I let him do things to me…and did things to him…things that his perfect little girlfriend wouldn’t ever do in her lifetime.

I felt him behind me, his legs almost touching my back as he cautiously approached me. He shivered but not from being cold. It was a nice autumn day. I hid my face so as not to let him see me trying to stifle my laughter at his fear.

“Don’t poke at it!” he shrieked again. God, what a sissy!

“You are such a wuss.” Again I poked the bloody covered clump of…something…with a stick. It’s not what I’d expected to see. I leaned close to try to figure out exactly what I was looking at.

It was a huge chunk of what looked like raw prime rib, the ends jagged and mangled like ground beef.

“It looks like…a part of a leg or an arm,” he whispered, beside me now, finally building up enough courage to crouch beside me, he leaned close enough to me that I could feel his hot minty breath on my face.

His stink of his breath and his tangible terror annoyed me that I needed to move away from him before I couldn’t stop myself from slapping him in the face. After I could breath without the smell of gum, I poked at it again. He was right. It was a thick section a thigh, about six inches of flesh, muscle and bone. Eerily resembling a rib eye steak, only made out human instead of, you know, a different kind of animal.

The slab was covered with dried blood, leaves, dirt, and grass. We wouldn’t have seen it except for the fact that we were lying almost right on top of it. I was busy with other things when Mr. Football Star screamed, jerked away and almost lost his dick as my surprise changed my mouth from soft and sweet to shock and teeth.

“Why are you whispering?” My voice was loud in the silence of the woods. It’s like all the animals and birds were holding their breath for something.

“Shhhh!”

“Why? What’s going to happen? We wake up the chunk of meat and have it scold us?”

He looked at me with his mouth open, eyes wide, shocked at my flippant words. “God, Sara, you are so fucking strange.”

“Strange? I’m not strange enough that you won’t fuck me now am I?” I snapped at him. “Your little hot girlfriend would be so disappointed with you before she moved on to the next football player.”

He turned away to look back at the meat, but he didn’t deny my words. My anger came fast. I knew this was our relationship when we started. This is exactly what I had wanted but up until now I hadn’t realized that I cared as much as I did. Since he’d started dating her, I was just something he used when she was too busy for him. I was the smart freak that let him do things that the sweet innocent preacher’s daughter wouldn’t.

I stood quickly, my vision darkening for just a moment as my head adjusted to the change in height and my burst of fury. My fists clenched, the stick digging into my hand.

He followed more slowly, stepping back a little to give me room or maybe to move away from the thigh.

“Hey, listen. Don’t be mad. It’s just that, well you know. You didn’t want anyone to know about me either and now with Kimberlee around…well, you know how it is.”

He was right about me not wanting to be seen with him but not for the reason he thought. When we’d first gotten together I felt like his special secret, now I didn’t feel special. I just felt dirty.

Had he made any effort to treat me like a person I might have thought a little better of him and changed my mind. The past five minutes just solidified my opinion of him and cemented my decision.

Kimberlee. God, I hated her. I hated her blonde hair, too white smile and pretentious way of telling everyone that she was not Kim, but Kim-BER-LEE. Kim (poke me on the nose) BER (poke on the forehead) LEE (her high-pitched laughter as she walked away).

Image Source: Giphy

When I didn’t say anything he pulled his phone from his back pocket, dialed, frowned, and walked away from me. Signal strength out here was horrible. I should know since I searched for hours for this particular spot. A girl doesn’t want an unwanted call when she’s misbehaving with the local football hero. It’s a horrible mood breaker. Today, it would have ruined everything.

“No luck?” I asked innocently, actually batting my eyelashes at him for effect. He missed my effort of playing helpless damsel in distress, shook his head at my question and tried again.

With no connection, he snapped the phone shut and turned to me, “Let’s hike back to the road, I’ll keep trying and you keep track of where the…uh…that…is.”

I didn’t reply, but looked at my watch. A snap and crunch of leaves behind me made me smile.

Perfect timing. Troy jumped and spun to look to the direction of the sound, his phone held in front of him like some kind of a pathetic weapon.

His eyes widened in surprise before his shoulders relaxed and his hands dropped to his sides.

“Fuck, Luke. You scared the shit out of me. What the hell are you doing out here?” He let out a deep sigh and then suddenly tensed up again when he realized that he’d just been caught with his pants down, with the school freak. He looked from me to Luke and back to me again. He opened his mouth to speak, but Luke beat him to it.

“What the hell are you doing out here with Science Sara?” Luke didn’t bother to look at me and I ignored him. Science Sara. Better than an over-pronounced name for a Barbie.

“Uh, well, see…DUDE, we found a body part!” Tory shouted pointing at the mess a few feet away. He looked happy to have something to pull his teammate’s attention from me.

Too bad Luke was more interested in the two of us. “A body part? Like your dick, man?” Luke asked and then laughed at his own joke.

Troy let out an uncomfortable chuckle before realizing that after we made our discovery, he’d never paused to zip up. He hastily fastened his pants.

I walked to my discarded backpack and unzipped it before walking past Troy. He didn’t even try to stop me. No “Sara, wait, let me walk with you.” No “We just found a body part, it might not be safe out here.” He just let me go. Discarded me without a second thought or moment of hesitation.

It wasn’t until Luke said “So, how’s Kimberlee?” did I stop to turn.

Troy bent his head in shame and cleared his throat. He didn’t get to answer the question because I seized that moment to pull my knife from my pack and shove it into his back as far as I could.

Poetic justice really. He stabs his friends in the back, so that was the best he deserved.

Image Source: Giphy

Poor Troy fell to his knees with a gasp of pain and a hoarse cry. He reached forward to his friend, his raspy voice pleading almost to soft to hear, “Help me.”

Luke came forward, still ignoring me, and grabbed his friend’s hand. With his free hand he reached around and grasped the knife, shoving it in even further. Blood bubbled from Troy’s mouth, his hands white-knuckled clutched at Luke’s hand.

With a laugh Luke yanked his hand free and shoved Troy to the ground. Then Luke held out his hand to me and smiled. I put my bloody hand in his and smiled. His pressed his lips to mine. I leaned in and tried to wrap myself around him, through him. His arms engulfed me, crushing me against him. The smell of his skin mixed with the scent of warm blood made me crave him.

Being in his arms made me remember why Troy had stopped being useful to me.

“Wait Sara,” he said against my lips. “We need to finish this,” he motioned at Troy, “before we get carried away.”

I nodded and extracted myself from his arms. The breathy groans from the ground drew my attention. “Still alive?” I asked, mildly surprised.

“Wow. I’m impressed. Kim died almost immediately,” Luke said.

“Don’t you mean Kim-ber-lee?” I enunciated each syllable to in a manner so Kimberlee like that I actually annoyed myself a little. “And speaking of the dead bitch, you were supposed to leave something a little more human looking. That slab of her thigh, that was pretty obscure,” I scolded.

Image Source: Giphy

Luke smiled sheepishly. “Sorry about that. I was going to bring a hand or foot or something, but I ran out of time. I got stuck at work and then my mom made me help her. I grabbed whatever I could find.”

I sighed but let it go. At least he had a good excuse. “That’s ok. He still freaked out once he realized that it was human. You should have heard him scream.” As we laughed Luke pulled my pack from my hands and placed it gently on the ground.

He yanked it open and pulled out my knives and handsaw. “Let’s see if we can get him to scream like that again,” he said as I looked into the quarterback’s eyes.

I picked up saw and turned it on for dramatic effect and held it so Troy could see it spin, it’s blade a blur but still stained with good old Kim-ber-lee’s blood. “Do you want to start or should I?” I asked.

Luke didn’t hesitate. “You. He’s been fucking you more ways than one. All he did to me was take my girlfriend.”

I smiled, “That gives me an idea.” Then I lowered the saw to Troy’s groin.